We live in the best of all possible worlds
by ibuzoo
Summary: Multiverse AU I see glimpses, of us, of you, universes in a sea of galaxies, stories of eternity are the stories of this sin that allows me to let us remain in existence. Sometimes it's your smile, sometimes it's the man carrying the same cologne as you, carrying the scent of fresh citrus and musky wood.


I wonder if there's a word for closing the door on a dream that threatens to swallow you whole.

Sleep never came easily for me, a shard of depression, anxiety, ocd, adhd, bipolar disorder or call it everything at once, a whole mess of words and letters that describe the fact that my mind isn't always a safe place. Talented as hell but serious trouble being human, at the same time utterly human and snarky, irreverent of my status but also enabling it to the point of codependency. There are days I can't get out of bed, days were I can't get into it to face the endless darkness of the night, to fight them, demons, flesh and bones, what they always will be, psychospatial dynamics crucified against the backdrop of my violent mind. They whisper my name, make me afraid, make me unsure, show me worlds upon worlds I never dared to dream of.

Can you imagine to wake up in a different time-zone, a different universe with eyes closed, still sleeping, every night?

Universes, Timelines, Space, all tangled in elemental equations and laws of physics of star-studded yarn, all happening at the same time yet creating back alleys to the slow burn of infant stars that thrum trough the multiverses into the designs of their love. The immaculate conception of the multiverse is flesh and bones, turned inside out, a song, a hymn of symmetry, geometry and proportion which are preached like religion, bringing apocalyptic chaos, patterns that are necessary to birth a new galaxy, a new timeline in which I will meet you again. The restless dust and debris from long forgotten fates will always linger in the burning air, dancing motes that waltzes across ballrooms of celestial spheres and fuse into combinations unthinkable semiseconds ago.

I never startle when my mind reenacts that these patterns are the indecipherable orbits of universes across the domes, a love too ancient to fully comprehend. Because these dreams, these insights of these multiverses are my gifts of rebirth, in every arch, in every era of universal architecture. Every time we fall in love a bright white light against the timeline, everytime it ends with interstellar explosions, brutally rationality, beings turned inside out as they spoke, engraved from the lit vacuum of skies, implanting black holes into the hearts of various universes attempting to one-up each other in devising the most creative of perversities.

The death that inspired all the guilt, the story of a love betrayed and betraying the lovers will never end the traces of the blueprints from the multiverse. In my dreams, I can reach out and pull the fabric of space and time.

I see glimpses, of us, of you, universes in a sea of galaxies, stories of eternity are the stories of this sin that allows me to let us remain in existence. Sometimes it's your smile, sometimes it's the man carrying the same cologne as you, carrying the scent of fresh citrus and musky wood. Every universe in the multiverse showcase the cruel love that we once exhibited so effortlessly, a bloody path, painted with blood from our partner, blissful sadism chained by our own desire.

Every night, every dream.

All of these universes bear the bloody imprint of cruel cold love, of words and lies that struggle from our mouths when falling in love again. For some falling in love is like a summer rain, constant drops of beauty and ghosts of pleasure. For some it's like a shooting star, rare, bright and the distant dance of mayflies. Some think it's a solar ecipse, freezing bloom once in a lifetime, laughing darkness passing by. For me, falling in love with you was like a supernova. Destructive, explosive and carrying the weight of death and life on my shoulders.

It is intoxicating - it is killing nevertheless.

This feels like a hard-won truth, I want to escape the boundaries of earth, want to explore infinity and distand lives, rigid and ceremonial rules, shapes and reshapes of our fate, a dance for eternity. Let me tell you what I see, let me tell another lifetime, but the story stays the same, will always stay the same of burning futures and eyes gone dark, a wild, joyously violent passion who will tear us apart.

I close my eyes, and dream.

I'm not an artist, not in the proverbial sense, but make art nevertheless. I'm a storyteller, an author, write poems and books, write about long lost lives, bestial love creeping under skins, sadistic stories that eat their own storytellers up, consum me to flesh and bones. I'm a writer, a storyteller without a story worth telling. I drop lines and notes about black hair falling over a pale front, falling into dark omniscient eyes chasing me trough days and nights, chasing me trough streets and cities away, so far away from home. My soul breathes through every aestetic cliche of a book while I'm drunk with glory and beauty and romance, while I bed Narcissus and Ares in one person, bare my back scarred with the ghosts of destruction and animus, enthusiasm not far away with my cries of thrill when the bloody bejeweled knife dips deep in my skin, leaving the name of my divine tantalizer like a red cobweb on alabaster skin. In the end I write about how I want to say I love you but keep it to Goodbye.

The center of the story, itself in every universe, every tragedy, every bittersweet ending is the plot of our novel.

I will deny to my dying breath being a slave to your music, sanctified with vulgarly wanton decadance and austere intellectualism, strings vulnerability like pearls along my slender neck. Filigree fingers belonging to a pianist, you, an angel of symphonies, the soundtrack of a budding hurricane trapped in the frame of your perfect face. You focuse on melodies like witch's spell, scratche carillons into being where non before existed. I'm mesmerized, a song in my ears, drawn from the blueprints of heaven, where lost sould come in order to be found, for an inhale of death exhaled as sofly kindling desire, an obsession that starts on the wrong note to be slowly segued to the sweetest of duets. I listen to your songs, captivated, the music which should be cheerful seems menacing, death lurking around every corner ready to stretch his crawls around my chest, swings promising wild and desire alights in my soul ready to sacrifice me right in your arms. Oblivion and gore never leaves your path, neither does crime and corruption, the dark glory lurking behind the canticle, bloodsoaked, hypocritical and horrifying, promising worlds and leaving dust.

You're a siren, creature of the deep blue see, a nephilim with melodies that swallow me alive and I'm unable to build forts around myself. What a siren can do to a man with open ears.

Even when I'm not a man, not a whirlwing at the centre of my own desire, not a king in my own world with brilliant art and late night talks, my inherent value still explodes from myself and envelopes humanity like a blanket, when I'm a queen of art, a girl never bound by the laws and statures of any mortal. I'm still an artist, a genius, scratch with hands and fingers over canvas, draw with my blood and soul until creativity pours out of me, stuff it back and start anew. I want more, so much more, I can see you, in my dreams, you roar through my veins, a picture written onto my soul, onto my bones, sitting there on a sunday morning, sunrays lightning up the flat that's too dark and dust and too narrow at the same time, doesn't let me breath, no space, mind flashing, screaming, clawing at me, urging me forward. You're clothed in darkness, hiding in black shadows and wearing obscurity as a mask all I do is watch, wait, want though I know you will never let me touch you. Blood under my fingernails and on my palms, I can draw you from my heart, can sketch the perfect nose, the high cheekbones and dark eyes, even darker than my soul, then my abyss, and then your machiavellian smile, a hundred times cruel but a thousand times more clever. When I'm sitting in the autumn sun not wearing anything than a thin white male button down, sleeves up and with color straines, while the light illuminates my brown hair, plays with the colors of the spectrum in the thick air I can barely breath, all I can do is draw, driven by pride and need and ideological fanaticism.

I wasn't your property or anyone's property, neither was you mine, no promises were sealed between us after all.

Delicate fingers dance along the edges of the bruise, use a scalpel as precise as brutal, from times long forgotten. You're a surgeon, studied years at the best faculties to master your profession, the golden boy, the one with blessed hands, nephew of the hospital director, you move, transform, shape, heal. When I ask to see your god you'll show your lines drawn delicately with your veins. We know each other since high school, work together, you the savior of the living, I'm the agent of the death, humanity will never be enough for me, the forensic with a mind of a psychopath. Both caught in a gilded cage of obsession and longing, we're whispered about, in tones dripping with carefully applied scorn. You know I mean trouble, in this world I tried, always the black sheep, making myself a name in dark streets and even darker business, always crawing my way up, my twisted yet blessed soul looking at you as if you're a mirror, I cannot stand your sight. Your lips promising lies and bend the world to collect lovers and rivals and enemies while saving lives, raised as a god over life and death.

I'm looking up at you with tired, intoxicating eyes, capturing you again while your own orbs see the cuts on my wrists clearly pale yet bloody against my marble skin.

Once we were children, innocent and pure, your black hair curling on your head like a crown, chastity split on the shattered shards of divinities illusions, white shores and coasts reflecting the drumbeat from the marches of our hearts. I vaguely remember the sand castles we made, running towards waves. I remember the splashing, the salt on my lips, the breezes in my air, the lightness of my shoulders, without a weight to put them down, the laughter.

Your voice was beautiful, even as a child.

A key is but a half of a pair, without its lock, it is no more than an ornament, leading to mysteries unbeknownst to the holder. I had drawn the key from my own kismet, stolen the other half from you, a person who is light and shadow as well, mad and half the sanest person I will ever met, a monster because of the connection to the divine, and I unlocked pandoras box, opened the abyss that I had spent eternity running from. You're a Count, walk among people armed with an angelic smile yet cold clear-eyes like a snake, a predator, a hunter, maneuvers through your quicksand landscape of truth and lies and divine love with only one end in mind, a massacre in your twisted pristine words of glory and faith. I'm a futurist with visions of a holy land, holy but not divine, a constructor of warmachines that hunger for bloodiron and ripping flesh. You see prophets where I see humans in covered blood, they are the same thing, they are polar, a chosen soldier that I fell in love with. Blood that spills from the bodies of enemies is the most valuable when mashed together, bloody knuckles that pound against the flesh of another, knees that scrape against rough surfaces as bodies hit the ground and smiles that are painted scarlet when grinning mad and maniac. The bursting Renaissance era was always my favorite, both prophets, both falling hard, not fading away, dying in fire and pain, leaving our guts burned. You left a wound gaping open by exposure to the sheer force of adoration and passion.

The sweetest sin is always blood, the forbidden fruit of god that we both devoured whole.

You are the ultimate hunter, rage gathers like gunpowder, coalescing into deadly society of agents in whose veins run the rebellion of generations upon generations. You wield your terrible beauty in one hand and everpresent gun in another, speak justice as the only answer in an era where hate has replaced the essense of humanity itself. Continuously placed into different societies where we take on false identities, our own name irrelevant when it comes to our work, the hunter and the hounded, the agent and the killer. I bath in blood, bare my back scarred with the ghosts of my mind, let people fall to my feet when i slit their throats, drink their blood unashamed, as deeply to consume them, shadows are my home, a bitter smirk dances across my face smeared with the life and flesh of every victim, you raise your lips to have a taste at this breathtaking, intoxicating seduce. We remain secret, the ability to blend into the background makes us the most dangerous of foes, bloodlust matching with our intelligence keeps us at the top. With secrecy comes always knowledge, power, the ultimate advantage on the battlefield, our game.

Melancholy and whimsical and dark edged all at once, living inside each other's secret spaces and still so far away, how long does it take one of us to pull the trigger?

As professor you watched it all with cynical amusement in one hand, a glass of your favourite wine in another, speaking with the utter detachment of an idealist long broken, lectures of religions and long forgotten kingdoms, history of mankind, of genocides that failed and will continue to fail, of justice that should laughed entirely out of existence, a testament of massacres, a bloody trail of once wide-eyed students seeking to match cottony wits against the brilliant steel of cynicism. I'm a boy, merely mature and so many years younger then you, debating with the sharp intellect of divine creatures, with the cold idealism of Kant and the fury of a Tudor, a passion that forms my lips and shreds to pieces every argument you bring forth, looping around your mind with agony and paroxysm. Our debates, epic to the point of destruction, drawing crowds of students from across all faculties who watch in awed silence as arguments and sarcasme are flung and shattered and countered in a chaotic intellectual warfare, a bloodshed of genius and smarts, eyes overflown with sharpness and darker secrets no one can imagine when you take my body to fill the ravage hole in your chest.

There's a pain in every moment of this existence, the terrible delight we take in the game, every inch of us twisted by our own genius.

I am the youth that society failed, that society always will fail. The boot of civilisation tried to grind me to dust, an uncontrolable fury let me raise again, trying to burn the world to the ground. I have no God while i sing the songs of generations who no longer believe in faith itself, bleed my fingers against the guitars, scream anthems for the damns, an army of follower, everyone who ever wanted to hold the universe in his hand, shoulders and chests armoured in leather. I write songs with words strung together as apocalyptic horsemen, etches my artwork like visual wounds on a city bleeding from within, deliver the final blow to shatter the thin sheen of civilisation. It's an anthem, it's a hymn, a lullaby about the empty space beneath your ribcage, beneath your shell, the chose to fill it despite the ravage across the surface of your skin, the constant state of readiness for war. You stare at me in the middle of the crowd, eyes blown wide, sees me as god of madness, violence and sex, lusting not only for your blood but also your soul, a son of Apollo, a halfgod who will show you the way to tear down a kindom.

This time, it's you who can't tear your eyes from me, mesmerized by the atrocious yet beautiful voice of mine.

A priest is always a warrior, always a soldier on God's divine battlefield, blade deadly clean for a sword craves to drink the blood of those it combats. You part the red seas of innocents, baptized in blood, doing God's work, a tool for your weapon, drinking the blood of virgins, striping the skin of the most beautiful as wallpaper to the holy mother Church. My faith is broken as the bible's spine, you're feeding me truths and Testament like holy wine that i gulp greedily, doubts be sliced from your knife, cutting down deep in my sensitive delicate skin, leaving quotes and holy words behind, highlighted with bloody red, splatters of blood against the cathedrals that you build on blood and bones and fire. You're a prophet of grace a godlike figure, wear black as second skin and a halo as a crown, a dark messiah and i'm Mary Magdalene, i'm Judas, clenching my hands around the heavy wooden cross at your throat, praying until my voice is hoarse, hallowed by the name, let me serve you entire.

If hell is a place on earth, we will burn on our own terms for how foolish to think that love is a thing that can be controlled.

Setting fire to the pages of the multiverse is something everyone has been warned, since birth, since conception - to not do. With the power of knowledge comes the desire for destruction and domination.

There are so much more, every universe another turn, another twist in this endless flux of possibilities - sometimes it's me that stabs first, sometimes it's you that pulls the trigger. Our love is a nuclear terroristic lovestory with the twist of a bloody obsession, a wild and disturbing brilliance with elements of hallucinogenic journeys we have to take. The stories of a mad violent geniuses and the transcendental warrior who loves him. A neverland of battlefields, a hollow vision of echoes we never were, we never are but we'll always will be. Us during Ancient Greece, us during Victorian England, us during the 20's, us in another future - we are never happy, it's never about happiness, is it?

And we're running and running, because there's nothing else, just us, spinning, running and if we'll ever stop it will all come tumbling down.

Sleeping through the night wasn't so rare anymore. I used to stay up and draw, lose myself in barbaric poisons, drugs, becoming a terrifying destroyer of worlds, a monster in human form, decrepit, rotten, broken, stunted, in vain confusion I sought for all that has vanished. I am a paradox, a war machine seeking peace in the darkness around me.

I can wake up now. The universe has ended.

(If I die, my universe dies with me. I'll move on to whatever happens after death. But when I die, your universe doesn't die - it lives on with you. Doesn't that inherently make our universes two separate things?)


End file.
